


Stubble

by Loveforthestory



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Miles' stubble, passionate one shot, well..okay...smut.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveforthestory/pseuds/Loveforthestory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is precision. And fight. And death. And now, he is sitting right next to you. And he is all whisky. Whisky and stubble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stubble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hayj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayj/gifts).



**Inspiration for my writing can come from many places. A daydream, music, a quote..or in this case, a picture from Miles and his stubble.  I made a joke that I could write a story about Miles and his stubble. And a lovely comment from Hayj, telling me she would read it made me think..what IF I would write it? Well....here it is.  Coffee and some free time turned into this.  It kind of turned into something hot, just like my coffee. Just a little warning ahead.**

Stubble

He used to be a General. You know that. The butcher of Baltimore. You know that too. You have heard the whispers. The stories. You have seen him around town.

He is all dark eyes, dark hair. One boot in front of the other. The laces of his boot that never seem to want to fall in line. His eyes are always deep and seemingly so at ease. But you have seen him fight. A couple of men coming here to make trouble in town.  You have watched him fight.  And he is danger. And sharp, like the blades he uses, two at a time, to defeat any kind of enemy who dares to step too close. Who looks too long.  He is precision. And fight. And death.

And now, he is sitting right next to you.

And he is all whisky. Whisky and stubble.

His elbows on the bar, his shoulders a bit lower, a whiskey glass so casually in his deadly hand.  The hand you have seen him use those blades with. And you wonder, for one moment with that shiver creeping down your lower belly , what else he could do with that hand. With those large hands, rough skinned fingertips that are normally in battle. And around blades and triggers and people’s necks. And the rush is all kinds of wrong, but it is there.

He meets your eyes. You say something stupid. He still grins at you. It is slowly burning in his eyes, that grin. Just like the whiskey in his glass. He asks you something, something meaningless. You look at those eyes. He makes you relax. He asks if he can buy you a drink. When you tell him you never thought to hear that line again, he actually starts to smile.  He answers you back with a colour of sarcasm that makes him look younger.

But then he licks his lips. His dark eyes go a bit more dark.  And you see the man who he is, reflected in them.

Your eyes move from his eyes to the line of his jaw. To the dark stubble. Dark stubble  with hints of grey that makes you yearn for something deep inside of you. Something you start to realise  _he_ can only give to you. Your eyes follow the lines of his jaw to the lines of his shoulder. To the necklace that leans into his skin. Muscles, trained and hardened by the years, life and fight, lie under the necklace.  Waiting for you to lick and touch and kiss, images that overwhelm you when you are sitting next to him at the bar.

When you meet his eyes again you know he is going home with you.

He walks you home, his tall body lingering next to you. His boots, his shoulders, his arm brushing yours.

You know why he was a General. Probably still is. You know why they called him the butcher of Baltimore. You know the moment you have opened the door and the slow burning eyes and his step and grin from the bar turn into something completely else.

He catches you by your arm. Pulls you close and at the same moment  pins you against the wall. It is dark but you can see the burn, the fire. It is him.

He demands your mouth like he would demand respect from his men. His mouth takes yours in the way he took half a continent before. He has his one hand next and a little above your head, pressed against the wall. The other precise and deadly in the way you have seen him use his blades, on his way to your breasts.

He pins you against the wall and you have no time to think. He hungrily kisses you, as you feel your clit yearn for something hard. His thigh is possessive between your legs, he demands you to open your legs and give him access.

You moan a little when your clit feels the hard muscles under his pants. You moan again when he pushes his cock hard against your belly. You try to hold on to his impossible tall and strong body and try to regain some control over yourself.

But he is Miles Matheson. He is in charge.

He orders you with a rough whisper to get undressed. To get on the bed. He eagerly undresses you with his eyes as you do exactly that.

You watch him untie his boots and you wonder how such a thing can be so highly erotic. His shirt moves over his head, his tall strong arms moving it away from his chest. His pants are unzipped, another sound that makes another wave of anticipated heat rush through your core. His belt, his weapons, all gone now. Those deadly weapons now on your nightstand. You tremble, tremble with desire you have not felt in so long.  You expect him to be demanding again.

But when is on the bed, when he is with you, when he pulls you against that chest of his, and you feel the dark hairs of his chest against the skin of your breasts, he slows down.

His hands move into your hair and you feel your thighs and legs entangle with his. He keeps you close with his leg wrapped over yours.  You watch him. He kisses you again. And then, he lets you take him for one second where you want to go, where you need to go.

You kiss the pulse point of his neck.  You follow the cool material of his necklace with your fingertip. And then you finally give in, and let the softness and warmth of your lips touch his stubble. He is close enough to smell. Warm sweat, control and all man. You take in his scent when your lips touch his jaw, the stubble. It is rough against your skin and sends little sparks through your body.

You think you feel him grunt something. You kiss his neck, his jaw. And then, he kisses you again. It is a hard kiss, a kiss that presses his stubble into your mouth and chin.

And Miles Matheson sets your skin on fire with his stubble, the rougher touch against softer skin.

He moves the palm of his hand over your breasts. He adds just enough pressure. It borderlines rough but it is what you need. What you crave.  He kisses you again, his hand now between your  thighs. He rubs your clit, and then when you start to pant and lose control, he moves two fingers inside of you with precision and aim. He takes you. He takes control and his fingers make you come with such intensity, you forget the room.  His mouth is over your nipple , his stubble touching the sensitive spot between your breasts as you move your hands in his hair.

And then, you just let go and come on the rhythm of his fingers inside of you, come to the rhythm of the palm of his hand against your clit.

Your fingers need to feel him now. So you slowly move your fingertips from his jaw to his chest and to the curls just above his cock. You feel his hard cock meeting the side of your hand right before you take him into the palm of your hand. You watch his eyes and finally feel in control the moment you wrap your fingers around his hardness. You watch him close his eyes and curse something.

He is wide in your hands, and even his cock is tall strength. Ready to conquer. 

And he does.  _Oh he does_ .  He orders you to turn around with a hot rough whisper. You do. He moves behind you, his hands gentle again on your hips. When one hand moves behind you, an imagine of his hand around his cock lining himself up between your legs, makes you even more wet and on fire.

His other hand moves around your waist.  Hip. Lower belly. Right above your curls. And with one deep thrust he moves inside of you. You moan. He curses again. You both find a rhythm. He leads, your body melts against his. Your knees want to give out but his thrusts demand of you to stay where you are.

His hands helping you, wrapping themselves around you so you cans steady yourself against his chest. Both of you sweating, your head now against his cheek, his stubble moving against your neck. Adding more fire, and roughness and more wet. More sweat. More moans. More fire.

He takes you how he wants to take you. He takes you how you need to be taken. He takes care of you, he needs you to come again. And you know, when he turns you around, and your back lands on the mattress and his mouth devours your belly and the sides of your breasts, he is going to make you come. Again.

When he moves between your thighs and pushes inside of you, his necklace hangs from his neck and in between the both of you. His eyes need you, find you. His cock fills you, all the way until your hips are locked with his thighs and he cannot fill you more than he fills you now.

You kiss him with passion. You wrap your legs around him.

When you come, you hang on to his shoulders with your arms and hands that feel so small compared to his tall strength.  When you come  he pushes inside of you with one deep wave of his body over you. Your lips reach the scar right under his collarbone when you try to be quiet but you can’t. You moan turns into a deep scream and his name roles of your lips, just to try.

When he comes, it is a force of fight and whisky and this man that thrusts one more time, deep inside of you, his whole body washing over you with one last deep thrust. The dark hairs of his chest move over your breasts when you watch his face with lust, eyes that are now closed. And right before he closes his eyes he looks at you. And you feel his  burning desire for you, to come inside of you, under your fingertips. It burns through you like whisky.

And when he comes, hard and with a primal grunt that makes you want to come all over again, he moves his head deep into the nook of your neck.

You hold on to him.

The stubble of his beard now softly brushing the skin of your neck.

* * *

**Author's Note  So, who is the woman with Miles? I wrote it so you can use your own imagination to answer that question. Thank you to Hayj for giving me the inspiration to write this one! Thank you for reading. I really had a lot of fun writing this.... Miles and his stubble. Yes, two characters to love...  Well, now its back to my other stories. ;)  Love from Love**


End file.
